Tuesday, April 5, 2016

Push

"I, with a deeper instinct, choose a man who
compels my strength, who makes enormous demands on me, who does not doubt my
courage or my toughness, who does not believe me naïve or innocent, who has the
courage to treat me like a woman."- Anaïs Nin

“Push harder,” he says, staring down at me, watching the
sweat trickle off my brow. “One more
this time.”

He lowers the barbell down into my waiting hands and I let
the steel, still warm from my last set, rest against my palms momentarily
before gradually lowering it and pushing up. Again. And again. And again. He’s not
holding on, but he’s there, his eyes darting between my hands, my pecs, and my
eyes.

“Slow and steady,” he says.
“You got this.” I push. Eight.
I struggle and feel the barbell heavy in my small hands, but I do
it. Nine.

“One more,” he demands, his voice authoritative but
reassuring. With everything I have left,
I shove the barbell upward, closing my eyes and straining. He puts his hands underneath it just as my
arms straighten, takes a firm hold of it, and says, “You can let go now.” My arms, instead of dropping, lower slowly
until they’re hanging limply at my sides and my fingers graze the grungy mat
underneath the bench. Eyes still closed,
I feel proud but too tired to smile.

After stretching, we walk home together, taking turns sipping
a protein shake. In his apartment, which
has started to feel like home to me, I go into the bathroom to turn on the
shower; before I can get there, he grabs my arm.

“No,” he says, pressing me against his blue tile wall. “I want to taste you the way you are now –
sweaty and salty.” He pulls down my yoga
pants and drenched panties and inhales deeply, like you would with a glass of
dark red. Looking down at him, nuzzling
his nose into my public hair and smelling me, preparing to lick me clean before
we even get into the shower, I finally smile.